


December 26th, 2009

by FlatlandDan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Head Injury, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/pseuds/FlatlandDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was December 26th and Clint had been in a coma for four days.  Four excruciatingly long days, as far as his handler was concerned, but four needed days as far as his doctor was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 26th, 2009

The first word Clint croaked out was “Shit.” 

Then Phil leaned over, smiled reassuringly at him, feed him a few ice chips, and Clint managed, “Did I miss it?”

It was December 26th and Clint had been in a coma for four days. Four excruciatingly long days, as far as his handler was concerned, but four needed days as far as his doctor was. Clint had taken a shortcut on his last mission before Christmas, straight down steep incline and onto some rocks. They had gotten to him quickly, stabilized him on the quinjet and by the time he had arrived at base there was nothing to do but some scans and an IV. Phil sat by his side the entire time.

They hadn’t made plans to spend Christmas together. Phil normally went to his mothers, Clint and Natasha normally decorated her tree and ate food in their PJ’s. Phil suspectly highly tangential Christmas films like Die Hard and Gremlins were involved. This year he had called his mother and made his apologies, pulled up a hard plastic chair, and had started reading a book.

Natasha had arrived in the early hours of Christmas morning, a quiet shadow of herself as she leaned against the door frame. He peered at her over his glasses, gestured toward the other empty chair, and put and grabbed a bookmark and a pack of cards from his bag.

“Do you know how to play rummy?” he asked her. She had smiled, a soft smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.

“Everyone who knows this idiot knows how to play rummy.”

Christmas breakfast had been coffee and doughnuts, Christmas lunch soup and sandwiches and Christmas dinner had been Agent Shelby’s infamous deepfried turkey with instant mashed potatoes, boiled carrots that had then been half burned in the oven and sachets of cranberry sauce. There was a limit of two per person. They had spent the day itself doing paperwork and playing cards, Phil’s book long done. He had kept hoping for a Christmas miracle, that Clint would wake up in time to enjoy the day he had been looking forward to for weeks, but the clock passed midnight and Clint slept on.

Now it was December 26th and Clint was staring at him, his eyes still struggling to focus as his mind cleared. Phil knew what he should do. He should smile again and tell Clint that Christmas was just a day and they could open presents when he was discharged. He would cook them an actual Christmas dinner, with all the cranberry sauce they wanted and veg that didn’t cross the line into a crime against humanity. And Clint would be happy with that, because Clint had always made the best out of what SHIELD, what life had offered him. 

But Phil wouldn’t.

“It’s noon on Christmas Day. You’ll be cleared to eat in time for Christmas Dinner!” Clint has smiled lopsidedly at Phil’s words and Tasha, holding Clint’s hand had turned to look at him. She had a very fixed smile on her face. He was saved from opening his mouth again by the medical team, swiftly shooing them out into the corridor so they could run some tests. He stood silently, avoiding looking at Tasha for as long as he could, until she very deliberately coughed.

“He’s going to tell them how happy he is he’s awake for Christmas,” she reminded him. Phil flew back into the room.

“I know, I know. I forgot my briefcase and it has high clearance material.” He looked the doctor very deliberately in the eye. “Also wanted to check if Agent Barton is going to be able to eat Christmas dinner. Because it’s Christmas today. And we’ll need to tell the cafeteria to plate up a Christmas dinner to go if he can eat Christmas dinner.” The doctor looked at him. Then looked at Clint. Then looked at the nurse. Then back at him.

“Yes, he should be fine to eat….Christmas dinner” The doctor said slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth. “You should put a sign on his door. Just in case you have to step out and they forget that it’s Christmas and he’s getting the Christmas meal.”

Phil nodded and made a note to put the doctor in for a promotion before grabbing his briefcase and heading back out into the hallway. He wasn’t surprised Tasha was waiting for him, both hands on her hips. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“How do you want to run this?” she asked him and if he didn’t think she might have killed him for it he would have hugged her.

“We need a Christmas dinner. We need to bring the plant from your room. We need the presents. We need the video tape from the carollers yesterday.” He reached into his briefcase, grabbed a pen and some paper, and wrote in large black letters He think’s it’s Christmas die. Don’t ruin it.

“Shelby will be turning the leftovers into pies. You had better run. I’ll do the tree and presents, you grab the video.” He didn’t have time to reply, she was already on the move. Thirty seconds later, the sign on the door, he was heading down to the cafeteria.

Ten minutes later, he and Agent Shelby were looking at forty turkey pot pies.

“I could pick some of the turkey out, Sir” Shelby said helpfully, wringing his hands. He didn’t like the look on Phil’s face. In fact, it was fair to say his life was flashing before his eyes. 

“No, no. I’ll figure something else out.” Shelby sighed and took a step back and Phil’s remarkably restrained answer.

“We still have some of the vegetables left. I was going to use them for soup tomorrow, but you can help yourself.” Shelby’s voice took on a serious tone as he continued. “But sir, I have to tell you, we’ve inventoried the cranberry sauce.”

“You’ve….right. Got it.” Phil couldn’t even be mad. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who suggested the inventory is staple goods in the first place. It still left him without a Christmas dinner for Clint though. No, it left him without three Christmas dinners, so that they could eat with Clint. He picked up his cell phone and called for backup.

“Jasper. Merry Christmas. I need a favour.”

It was 2:30 in the afternoon, and Clint’s hospital room looked like Christmas. There was a giant yucca plant covered with lights twinkling in the corner, nine presents underneath it. Clint himself was propped up with a santa hat hiding the bandage wrapped around his head and a giant grin on his face. Tasha was wearing reindeer antlers, mostly because they had put the giant grin on Clint’s face and Phil had a knitted christmas pudding hat on. They were letting Clint win at card, both pretty sure he was completely high off the good drugs he was now on. If Phil was worried, he was doing his best to not let it show. Before he’d left the kitchen, they had done the calculations and in order to have Christmas dinner at 5 pm, when the hospital meals were always delivered, Jasper Sitwell would have to arrive before 3 pm.

“The carol singers should be coming around soon,” Tasha remarked. “They let them come to the door of the ward. Do you want me to prop open the door?”

“Awesome.” Clint replied, bouncing a little in his bed. Phil never got over the fact that heavy painkillers turned his favourite assassin into a goofy child. Tasha smiled indulgently before going over to open the door. On the other side, Maria Hill stood with a video camera plugged into a sound system. 

“You’re both going soft” she mouthed. Tasha slipped her $20 and rolled her eyes. If anyone asked, this was all on Phil. She would deny that faking Christmas day for Clint was bringing her joy until the day she died. Tasha took retook her seat and five minutes later, the sound of a dozen voices singing Frosty the Snowman started up. Clint made a happy noise and started singing along, arms flapping to indicate they should both join in.

In was at that exact moment that Director Nick Fury appeared in the doorway. He took in the scene: The yucca plant, Strike Team Delta singing along to Frosty the Snowman wearing the most ridiculous hats he’d ever seen, his deputy hiding behind the door with a media system and the sign on the door. He looked at Phil and watched as his most senior agent gave him the thumbs up. Director Fury pulled out his PDA and checked the date. Twice.

“Hello Director, Sir.” Nick Fury had been so distracted he hadn’t noticed Jasper Sitwell arrive in a Christmas sweater with a backpack on. 

“You backpack appears to be leaking.” Fury commented, watching as a pink drop hit the floor. Sitwell paled. The song ended and Maria picked up the equipment and did the only sensible thing he’d seen in the last three minutes. She walked quickly out of the room.

“Director. So nice of you to stop by at Christmas to check up on Agent Barton. We’re just having a little Christmas party to cheer him up.” Phil said, gesturing at Jasper to hand him the backpack. Fury looked back into the room and a very happy Clint waved at him. He waved back and then very calmly shut the door.

“I’m not going to ask.” He held up a finger to pre-emptively silence Phil. “I’m not going to ask because I think the less I know about this the better.”

“I totally agree, Sir.” Phil replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of a time sensitive situation.” All three of them watched another pink drop hit the tile floor. Fury closed his eye. When he opened it, both agents were gone. He couldn’t faintly hear Clint Barton start singing Let is Snow.

Phil and Jasper made it to the kitchen at 3:10.  
“Have ever done this before?” Jasper asked, tearing the plastic off a gigantic butterball turkey. Phil was busy pouring the first gallon of oil into the deep fryer. 

“Agent Shelby left directions. Heat the oil till it hits 400 degrees and cook it for 3-4 minutes a pound. Let is sit for 20 minutes. Serve it” Sitwell grabbed the packaging out of the garbage can, his lips moving silently.

“It’s going to take an hour and a half. At 3 minutes.”

“Shit,” Phil replied as he flipped the deep fryer on. Five minutes later it had reached 135 degrees. Phil reached for his phone and called Natasha. “Does he like dark meat or white meat?”

“White. Why?” Phil hung up on her and started looking for a knife. Ten minutes later the fryer had reached 225 degrees and Phil had cut off both turkey breasts. Jasper was looking for a set of scales and Phil had dumped the entire contents of the backpack on the counter and was reading the directions for instant stuffing. 

“Did you get the cranberry sauce?” he yelled, studying the directions. 

“They were out.” Jasper replied, coming around the corner lugging a set of industrial sized scales. “I’m sorry, I checked two stores.” He slapped the best looking of the breasts down on the scales. “5 pounds.”

“Ok. We’ll worry about the cranberry situation later. That’s about twenty minutes to cook now, right? Plus 10 minutes resting time. You keep an eye on the oil and put it in as soon as it hits 400. I’ll deal with all the rest of this stuff.”

4:30 found the two of them looking at a beautiful bronze turkey breast, resting on the counter and two bowls. One of them looked like snowflakes, the other looked like sawdust. Phil was dubious that could be reconstituted into something resembling food, but the package said they would be ok. He added boiling water and stirred. The microwave containing the boiled, burned and now nuked root vegetables went ping behind him.

“Phil, when are we going to worry about the cranberries?” Jasper asked. They had their jackets off and shirt rolled up. “He’s so drugged up. You could probably get away with jam”. 

“They’ll already be taking him off the codeine, he’s going to be sharper by now.” Phil heard some giggling and was pretty sure several agents had snapped photos of them on their phones. Phil was still wearing his christmas pudding hat. He’d worry about the photos after the cranberries. 

As if my magic, nine sachets of cranberry landed on the counter beside them. Phil looked to see Maria shaking her head. 

“Nick has been watching you on the cameras. He says you’re all insane, but Agent Barton deserves something to help him choke down what you are making him. You have 10 minutes to get it on a plate and get it up to him.”

Seven minutes later, Phil very calmly rolled a cart with three trays on it into Clint’s room.

“Awwww…..Christmas dinner!” Clint exclaimed and Phil breathed a sigh of relief.  
“I even got us all an extra sachet of cranberry.” Phil told him, handing over his plate.

“Can you even use cutlery?” Tasha asked Clint, narrowing her eyes as he grabbed the fork with the wrong hand. Phil lifted the dome to reveal all of Clint’s food neatly cut up.

“Awwww….” Clint said, beaming up at him. “Thanks bossman.”

If you ignored the vegetables, which everyone usually did, it wasn’t a bad attempt. The turkey was moist, the stuffing only slightly watery, the gravy kinda lumpy towards the bottom and the mash potato still tasting like sawdust but traditional. Clint drank water out of a sippy cup and managed to not get much food on himself. Phil caught Tasha smiling at him a few times, that smile that told him she was pleased but refused to tell him in any other way. 

“Presents and then we’re going to get kicked out” she reminded them, looking pointedly at the clock. Phil got what looked like a suspiciously hand knitted scarf from Tasha and the traditional piece of Captain America memorabilia from Clint. This year it was a stuffed toy Cap, with fuschia instead of red. Phil didn’t want to know where he had found it. Tasha’s smile softened even further when she opened a pretty little arrow necklace from Clint and widened when she opened a particularly secret file Phil had copied for her. Phil had to tell Clint no, it can wait until you’re better to keep him from putting on the charcoal grey Eat. Sleep. Archery. Repeat. sweatshirt he had bought him. It was all going so smoothly, Phil couldn’t quite believe they had gotten away with it.

But when Clint reached for his last package, Tasha got a slightly terrified look in her eyes and put a genuine fear into Phil. Clint tore open the package.

“Oh cool, a new watch. A digital one. Hey, is this mission standard?” he asked. Tasha nodded slowly. “It even has the date on it!” Phil stopped breathing. He was fairly sure Tasha did as well, as a frown suddenly appeared on Clint’s face. “Date’s wrong. Can you set it for me?”

Phil and Tasha started breathing again.

The watch set, the paper, packaging and plated cleared onto the cart, Phil nodded to the nurse hovering in the door. 

“Time for us to go.” He reached over pat Clint on the shoulder but felt a hand grab onto his shirt and pull him into a hug. 

“Thanks, Bossman.” Clint mumbled, sleepily. “This has been the best Christmas yet.”

Phil thought about how the day at started, the near silent vigil they had started. He thought about how close they came, day after day. 

“It sure has been,” he replied, pulling away. Tasha kissed Clint on the forehead and he waved at them both as they walked out. 

“We did it.” Phil told her, a quiet smile on his face. She reached over, squeezed his hand, a mischievous grin on her face.

“My one question is, how are you going to keep this a secret from him?” Phil shrugged and looked through the window as the nurse turned out Clint’s light. This has been the most stressful Christmas day he had ever had, including the one involving all his family coming to stay at his apartment. But the feeling of satisfaction he had at accomplishing all this, the feeling of joy he had felt in this building from the moment when Clint had woken up, made it all worthwhile. 

“One mission at a time, Tasha. One mission at a time.”


End file.
